The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) (13 page)

Servants swung wide a pair of heavy wooden doors and we entered what looked like an elegant armory. Oak-paneled walls were decorated with all manner of muskets and rifles, from earliest times to the present. Racked swords and pikes glinted in the angled light of a setting sun. An oriental carpet covered almost the entire floor. A banquet table occupied the room’s center. On it was a blue felt cloth felt that held a breathtaking display of pistols, knives, bayonets, powder horns, and bullet molds.

“For a woman who can’t take up arms, this is quite a collection,” I said.

“Make your choice, Monsieur Gage. I fortify my champions.”

I rotated. “Some of these are priceless.”

“Oh, I hope you choose a pretty one!” Marie exclaimed. “With gold filigree and mother-of-pearl!”

I shook my head. “I understand your preference, Countess, but better to have a weapon that draws less attention. The last thing you want when stalking an enemy is to throw off light. A plain and sturdy gun is less tempting to steal and less liable to break.” I studied the array. “That one, for example, looks like a frontier rifle from America.”

“You’ve a good eye,” Izabela said. “My late husband acquired it from Virginia.”

“I used to have one much like it,” I said, stepping close. “Often called a Pennsylvania longrifle, although they’re made in other states as well. A hunting gun, but one that stood my nation in good stead during our Revolution.”

“Not as elegant as some of the others,” Marie objected.

“And considerably more accurate than most,” I replied. “Here’s the mark of the gunsmith who made it, a man called Stanwick. I’ve heard of him, I think. Izabela, can you spare this one?”

“I’d be devastated if you didn’t take it. Your brother is welcome to choose as well.”

“I’ll stick with my standard infantry musket,” Caleb said. “Not as good a target shooter, but quicker to load and stout enough to drive tent stakes.”

Another oddity caught my eye. “Speaking of tent stakes,” I said, “I yearn for another tomahawk. Something to chop and pound that doesn’t misfire.”

“The medieval weapon you’re looking at is called a horse pick. It’s a Saracen weapon the Crusaders brought back to Europe.”

I picked up a slim hammer with a long curved spike behind the head, instead of a claw. The leather-wrapped handle was two feet long. About four or five pounds, I judged, and nicely balanced. “Wicked. Either end would crack a skull like an egg.”

“The point pierced armor and dragged a knight from his horse,” said Izabela, “The blunt head could stave in a helmet.”

“It’s so ugly!” objected Marie.

“And a pistol can kill at ten or twenty paces,” Caleb advised.

“But this is a stake pounder.” I balanced the pick in one hand and the rifle with the other. “Not a tomahawk, but close enough. You’ve reunited me with my country, Izabela.”

She nodded. “And tomorrow you’ll unveil the Grunwald Swords and reunite me with mine. Now, to your rooms.”

The bedroom wing was big as an inn, She even offered Astiza and me separate rooms, which we declined. Harry’s room opened off our own, and I relished the luxury of marital privacy.

Caleb was down the hall. “I trust you’ll be comfortable,” Izabela said to him. “And after cleaning up, may I invite you to tea in our orangery alone? I have some questions about the Baltic trade that would bore your family.”

His eyes flickered from us to her. “Of course you do.” Caleb bowed. “I am at your command.”

CHAPTER 16

T
he next morning Harry was shown a playroom complete with toy wagons, balls, soldiers, dollhouses, and favored children of the staff, all of it overseen by the watchful eye of a French governess. “Horus can enjoy himself here while we visit my museum,” Izabela said. “Anna reads them stories.”

My son readily agreed. “I like this house!”

The rest of us set out in late morning for the newly constructed Temple of Sibyl, built a quarter-mile southeast of the palace. I once more carried the wrapped swords on my back and, at Izabela’s suggestion, my new rifle. “We might spot some game.” With the medieval horse pick dangling from my belt as if I was marching to a mine, I felt equipped for the apocalypse.

Caleb’s musket was returned and he carried it as well. “I’ll do my best to provide dinner,” he said, “but it would be quite the stag to repay last night’s feast.”

Indeed, Czartoryski generosity had been disorienting after our recent hardships. Astiza was almost embarrassed by the evening clothes provided. “Ethan, the dress is silk and the chemise Egyptian linen. The shoes are from Paris.”

“So are you, in a roundabout way. Apparently they like us.”

And then long conversation over a meal that included goose, slices of tongue, beef in gravy, spring greens, winter cabbage, and maize mush. Izabela was anxious to hear all we could tell about Adam, the tsar, and Louis. Marie returned obsessively to Bonaparte, who presumably had more firepower than her eighty-year-old husband. “He seems triumphant in everything he grasps,” she said.

“Certainly he’s grasping,” Caleb said. “But yes, he plays the game better than anyone.”

“War is no game,” Astiza interjected.

“Some men think it is.”

“And what kind of Europe does he want to create?” Izabela asked.

“An organized one,” I said.

“Meaning him in charge,” Astiza elaborated.

“With the result that everyone has a claim on him,” Caleb put in. “I’ve been a captain, and no one is more ceaselessly tormented than a commander.”

“But everyone
talks
about Napoleon,” said Marie.

“What good is that?”

“He’s not invisible like ordinary men. He has glory.”

“We all decay in the grave.”

“Ideas and nations don’t,” said Izabela.

And so we philosophized. Then a good night’s sleep, a pleasant breakfast of coffee and rolls, and now a fine spring stroll through woods and lawns to the Roman temple. Caleb and I strode in the lead while Izabela, Marie and Astiza followed a few paces behind, laughing and singing. The princess looked as intently into the woods as Caleb did, but we saw no animals besides a few flitting birds. It was a brilliant morning, the sun playing peek-a-boo with puffy clouds and the soil smelling damp and fecund. A prettier place could scarcely be imagined. The woods had been cut, pruned, and planted in the English style to create a pocket Eden.

Yet Izabela boxed our fellowship with two of her armed groundsmen in front, two more behind, and one to either side on the fringe of the lane. No wonder we saw no game. I turned to ask her about such careful escort.

“Since the Russians burned Pulawy I’ve made my servants into a private army,” she explained. “Perhaps my caution is excessive, but does a bodyguard in these tumultuous times really surprise you, Ethan?”

“I suppose it’s prudent for a lord, and brave for a princess.”

“The safety of guests and their treasures is my responsibility.”

“Safety from what, though?”

“Desire. Ambition. Greed.”

The round Roman temple came into view, its white stone a classical poem among the trees. The structure was an elegantly simple cylinder about forty feet in diameter topped with a green copper dome. A portico of Corinthian columns surrounded this core. Broad stone steps led from the gravel lane up to double iron doors twice the height of a man. One could imagine a goddess gliding toward the place, harps singing in the mist.

“Construction began five years ago with restoration of our palace,” Izabela said. “This temple is for sundered Poland, and what you’ve brought is key. Come, I’ll show you.”

The building was perched on the brow of a small hill. We first strolled to the temple’s rear and looked down the slope to the brick wall of the temple’s understory. A sturdy oak door gave access to a small lawn below. “Workers and caretakers can go in and out that through that cellar,” our hostess said.

“A storage room?”

“A depository for Polish memory.”

The forest was thick beyond, and I appreciated its serenity. And yet even as I savored its peace I sensed movement, flickering at the periphery of my vision. I peered and saw nothing. The woods were still. Even the birds had quieted.

I put my thumb on the hammer of my rifle.

“Did you see some game?” my brother asked.

“None, which is why I’m looking.” It was so hushed that I could hear the murmur of the distant river. “The birds are silent.”

“Is your alertness a habit from the American frontier?” Izabela asked.

“If so, an impolite one.” I released my thumb. “Don’t let me break our mood. Shall we go inside? I’m ready to shed the relics on my back.”

“And I’m anxious to receive them.”

Back at the main entrance, two reclining lions flanked the stairs. “A gift from the tsar as reparation for the burning,” said Izabela. “He intended them for the main palace but I prefer they guard my Polish museum. One tries to take every advantage, but then you already know that, don’t you Ethan?”

“Franklin preached it, Napoleon practices it, but riches still slip from my grasp. Maybe that’s why I’m so watchful.”

“I suspect you’re richer than any of us. What is life but rich experiences, and what is money but a means to live them? If half the stories about you and your family are true, you’ve seen things most men can never hope to behold. Now you’ll see another, as reward for your courage in St. Petersburg.” She led me up the porch and took out a heavy key.

The lock was oiled and turned easily, but the double doors were massive. Her men helped push them open. We stepped into a circular room under a coffered ceiling. Light shone down from the dome’s bright oculus, glazed with glass against Poland’s harsh weather. The floor was marble. A frieze of bas-relief winged horses flew around the lip of the dome. Against one wall was a cavity where stairs led to the cellar below.

“This is my secret, until Napoleon liberates my country.”

The rotunda’s white walls held another armory, or rather a museum of Polish pride. Displayed were spears, swords, shields, armor, iron crowns, faded flags, and antique muskets. There were the famed winged breastplates of the Hussar Knights. Trophies included captured standards, pikes, bloodstained Turkish uniforms, scimitars, turbans, and spurs. Hanging like tapestries were Oriental rugs and the pelts of leopard, tiger, bear, and wolf. Drums, horns, and bugles dangled. There were royal robes, suspended gowns, and massive crucifixes. Here a bishop’s miter, there a knight’s war mace.

“Extraordinary,” I said. “Surely you don’t need two more swords.”

“On the contrary. The Grunwald trophies are the most important symbols of Polish triumph that we have. What you brought back will be my museum’s centerpiece. But everything else you see inspires us as well. The Turkish items date from the Polish rescue of Vienna in 1683. That sculpture of a white eagle is carved from dragon bone. This spear of Saint Maurice is claimed to be the one that finished Jesus at the Crucifixion.”

There were plenty of less martial objects as well: paintings, furniture, sacramental treasures from old cathedrals, and books. Izabela pointed proudly from item to item. “That is Shakespeare’s chair. The painting of the lady holding an ermine is a Da Vinci. That urn contains the ashes of El Cid. I’ve jewelry alleged to have been worn by Romeo’s Juliet, and a crucifix tied to Abelard and Heloise.”

Romeo and Juliet? Better not to question the provenance of a patron’s prizes. I’ve followed fables myself.

“These are the memories nations are constructed from, my new friends. Leaders come and go, and laws are abstractions to most people for most of their lives. But history beats in our blood, and past battles inspire future resolve. Adam and I have collected memorabilia from Stockholm to Pompeii.”

“Yes, Adam mentioned Vesuvius. Do you know that the husband of Nelson’s mistress pottered about in Pompeii? I met the lady once.”

“We all still long for the unity of Rome.”

“Napoleon certainly does,” Caleb put in. “He fancies himself Julius bloody Caesar, without the assassination.”

Izabela smiled. “And we Poles need our Cleopatra.” She eyed Marie. Oh yes, Mrs. Walewska would meet Napoleon.

“Bonaparte will find himself in Berlin this year, I wager,” Izabela went on. “Warsaw soon after. We’ll welcome the emperor with the swords captured from the Teutonic Knights. That is, if you have them, American?”

“Let the trophies make their entrance.” I slung off my burden and let its fabric unroll on the floor, the swords tumbling out like Cleopatra tumbled from her carpet into the presence of Caesar. Unlike the Egyptian queen, the two blackened hackers didn’t look like much.

Yet Izabela drew in her breath.

“It’s truly them,” whispered Marie.

“This is what all the fuss is about?” asked Caleb. “Couldn’t cut a ham.”

Izabela picked one up. “They’re heavy.” She thumbed the edge. “And still a little sharp. I think they’ll cut ham better than you think, Caleb. As symbols they have enormous power.”

“I’ll bet they clean up well enough,” I said, rather proud of my delivery. “Ready for a coronation in no time.”

“Yes, we’ll polish them. The vault below this rotunda holds jewels, gold, the bones of saints, and books of ancient law. The Grunwald Swords will join them until time is ripe for their unveiling. Your doughty little fellowship has nourished hope, Ethan Gage, and possibly changed history.”

“All in a night’s work. Although I did nearly freeze to death.”

“The retrieval made you desperate fugitives.” She was sympathetic.

“Even your little boy,” Marie chimed in. “What a brave lad!”

“Perhaps Poland will show some gratitude,” I speculated. “Nothing extravagant. A title, perhaps, if there’s one to spare.”

“Adam told me you should be rewarded.”

“A modest castle, a summer’s rest, some recompense for my brother here—I’m just thinking aloud. Whatever the local habit.”

“Patience, Ethan, patience. Poland’s time is near.”

She reminded me of Ben Franklin’s quip that every fault will be mended tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes.

“And who knows how events will turn?” she added.

Just then there was a shout from one of Izabela’s groundsmen standing watch on the portico outside. He fired a musket and we heard a cry from the woods. A moment’s silence and then came a blast of answering gunfire, the quiet morning suddenly exploding. Bullets rattled like hail against the stonework.

“What the devil?”

“Get inside!” Izabela shouted to her men.

Her guards sprang from their cover behind the Corinthian columns and tumbled into the rotunda as the enemy reloaded. The servants swung the great iron doors.

“Not all the way,” Caleb ordered. “We’ll be blind.”

I peered through the slit. Soldiers in green uniforms were slipping from tree to tree, moving to surround the temple. Guns flashed, more bullets pinging and ricocheting. Gunsmoke hung like haze. One of Izabela’s groundsmen came up behind me and shoved his musket out past my ear to fire blindly through the gap in the door. The report stunned me.

“Who’s attacking?” Izabela demanded.

“Russians,” her man answered. “They’ve come back.”